Disclaimer: Fan Fiction Inspired by the film The Matrix by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  The Ghost in the Machine and The Hecate Cycle © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002)

Credits: Opening quote from "Peter Bell the Third" by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Closing lyric taken from God Called in Sick Today (AFI, Black Sails in the Sunset)  

Rating:

± R for Language and disturbing imagery.   

Chapter Five

The Gauntlet

The Devil, I safely can aver,

Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;

Nor is he, as some sages swear,

A spirit, neither here nor there,

In nothing—yet in everywhere.

He is—what we are; for sometimes

The Devil is a gentleman…

The syringe clinked against the metal nightstand and the mild hands pulled the sheet across her chest and tucked it under her limp body. She was then covered with an itchy woolen blanket. The narcotic fruit salad rumbling through her veins produced hypothermic symptoms, and while he liked the feel of her icy flesh against his, he did not want her to suffer needlessly so soon.  The plastic top popped off the jar and clattered to the grimy floor. 

"This will keep your sweet lips from chaffing." Peeling back the cloth tape and repositioning the tubing, he smoothed petroleum jelly around the corners of her mouth. "I want you to be as right as a spring rain when you wake up."  He stooped over to collect the jar lid and wiped it off on the hem of his cotton boxers.

"You should have been here for the first performance. It was easier and I was younger, more creative.  A murder and a missing person used to be big news. Wives would whisper about it in the grocery store while they looked over their shoulders and made certain not to be caught alone by the breakfast cereal.  Men in plaid shirts and canvas sneakers would stand at the end of the driveways and attempt to sound as though they could protect their families from it." He sighed and toyed with the EKG lead. "People prayed."

The clock's monotonous cadence echoed the clicking of sharp teeth. "Then everyone became de-sensed.  I knew that one had to be cautious to keep the shock from vanishing, however, they threw caution to the wind. Look at the telephone poles and Super Mart bulletin boards, all covered in pathetic pleas for the return of a lost friend, father, godson. The harmless adverts for Girl Ranger bake sales and work-from-home scams have been replaced with homemade obituaries. No one cares about the deluded dreaming fools thinking their Enoch Arden will come home—not dead, only missing.  A lifeless body here, a drooling vegetative there and laughing Voids lurking in the shadows enjoying what they should not. Arrogant nothings!  They do not understand things as I do." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Just because a behavior becomes commonplace does not mean it is no longer a sin."   A manicured nail traipsed along her jugular vein.

The ceiling fan's squeal remained tedious and the new console set came to life in the middle of a commercial for a made-for-television movie about Ethel Rosenberg. A drowsy anesthetic odor mixed with stale formaldehyde hung in the dry air. The advertisement ended and the black and white programming resumed its barrage of canned laughter and melodrama. 

The picture tube exploded as the metal tray crashed through it.

"Goddamn red headed bitch!" His rage reverberated off the cracked tile walls and low ceiling. "You can't handle any fucking responsibility! A simple job boxing candy on a conveyor line and you turn it into a fucking circus. Stupid bitch! Little responsibilities elude you.  And, you will think you can stop me?  Stupid, stupid whore!"  He spat and an angry hand swept the bottles and vials to the concrete. The glass shattered into a field of jagged icicles melting in the liquid of dreams. "I dare you to play your fucking cards and force my hand." The shards pierced the soles of his feet and an anemic trail followed him to the smoking set.  A warm piece of the picture tube sliced through his instep. The wrenching, seductive pain eased his rage as he bent down to caress his punctured foot. Intently, he stroked the deep wound encouraging blood. "Red can be a beautiful color when its left in its natural state."

Transfixed before the smoldering set he swayed to unheard music.  His bloody hands abandoned the lacerations and pressed against his bare stomach painting a crimson path as they edged up his chest. A soft moan escaped his lips and he slammed the ball of his foot against another warm section of glass. Again, his fingertips massaged the torn flesh and his body trembled in ecstasy.  The thin blood from the gash at the base of his toes trickled down his arm and dripped from his elbow the floor.  Empty eyes gleamed as he smeared his fingers across his lips. Tense hands strayed back down his stomach.

Time inched forward, the blood dried and a vicious kick sent the metal tray skidding across the floor.  His labored breathing stabilized. "I apologize, my princess, but I've always hated that show."

* * *

Smith's eyes narrowed as he looked up from the screen.  With an arrogant nonchalance he rocked back in his new executive chair and steeped his thin fingers. Brown had been confused over the rationale behind the purchase, yet after it arrived put in an identical request for an "ergonomic upgrade." Smith took his time forwarding Brown's purchase order to supply and logistics. He liked his new chair and took a particular pleasure in his colleague's envy.

The late afternoon sun reflected off Jones's mirrored glasses and he cast a long shadow.  He had not been impressed with the chair.

"The files from EC as per your request."

Casually, Smith leaned forward and switched off the monitor. "All of them?" A skeptical look settled on the three disks in the burly agent's hand. 

"Yes, EC location readings for 606060.0154 for the past seven years."  Jones dropped the disks to the steel desk scattering the thin plastic squares, indifferent to the indecorous clamor.  Smith was not amused.

"Run a media search for Capital Airlines Flight 858 and a general systems search on Level Nine anomalies. With regard to Flight 858, limit the parameters to reports documenting the specifics of the malfunction. As far as the information on the anomalies is concerned, run a full search and bring me the results."

"Bring?"

"Physical disks." Smith seized one of the plastic floppies and waved it for emphasis.  

"Why not a data transfer.  It is more efficient."

"I asked for physical disks."

"So be it."  Jones pursed his lips and stared at Smith sitting before him with his shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loosened. He took an audacious step towards the desk and looked down at his superior.

Smith rose to his feet meeting the silent challenge head on. "That is what I requested. Is there anything else?"

"I though you determined that this incident was settled and that Agent Thoreau was in error. Why waste our time on what a spook thinks, unless you doubt your initial conclusion?"

A contemptuous glare settled in his blue eyes. "Agent Jones, I determine what you do with your time.  I do not make suggestions I give orders."

"Of course." Jones turned away before Smith saw the sneer. 

A fine line exists between a slamming a door and letting it close too heavily.  Smith swallowed an irritable growl, settled back in his chair and switched the monitor on.  The download was almost complete.  A sharp knock interrupted the rhythmic hum of the hard drive.  Smith rolled his eyes and poised his finger over the power button. 

"Enter." 

The hand pounded against the steel door a second time. 

"Enter."

A third knock brought Smith to his feet and set him storming across the room.  Angrily, he yanked the door open and surveyed the empty hall.  Fighting back his irritation, he approached the nameless soldier in black fatigues at the end of the corridor.

"Who just knocked at my door?"

"Sir?" The private's eyes remained fixed on the wall over Smith's right shoulder.

"Who just knocked at my door?"

"No one, sir."  Beads of sweat collected between his eyes. "There has been no one in this hall since Agent Jones left, sir."

* * *

Diligent hands knotted the laces and a soft tenor voice hummed a few repetitive bars of a forgotten song. With a content smile, he straightened his silk tie and double-checked his sterling cufflinks. Well-placed steps carried him through the broken glass betraying no imperfection in his stride. Reverently, he bowed over her and placed a gentle kiss on her bandaged head. A clean smelling aftershave mingled with the odors of preservation and sedation.

"I do hate to leave you, but there are things to which I must attend. Nine nights have passed and yet nothing. I cannot allow them to wrap themselves in the luxury of indifference. Now you see why my job is so complicated.  I can't get the attention of one without going after the other."  His soft hand brushed her pale cheek. "I will touch them all—burn them all.  I must teach them fear before I can teach them anything else.  Do you know what all beings fear, little sleeper?  It is same thing that fills your hazy days and nights with horror.  Uncertainty.  For it is the unknown, which provokes the darkest of terrors:  the long fingered ghoul in the closet, the hooded man hiding in the backseat, footsteps in the hall, angry voices in the attic, the shadow behind the shower curtain, the cold hand on the shoulder…" His red lips drew back revealing his white teeth. "I am that unknown."

Let's amend the classic story,

Close it so beautifully.

I'll let animosity unwind.

Steal away the darkened pages,

Hidden so shamefully.

I'll still feel the violence of the lines.